From the gate, the court looks almost itself again. Light has reached the glass. Familiar marks show through. It is easy, from here, to tell the hopeful version: the rain has passed and everything can begin afresh.
Closer to the surface, water remains. The marks are familiar; the footing is not. What looked like a completed change from outside is still happening underfoot.
The Court After Rain is widely told in both ways. Optimistic sayings call it cleansing. Other Tales remember the delay and the residue, the people ready to return before the ground was ready to receive them. Neither account needs to erase the light falling through the glass.
Temperance and the Star belong to this uneven return. The Returning Asking has a place here too: what is possible now, under the conditions that remain? An ordinary surface must be safe for play; hope cannot make that assessment on its behalf.
Imagine two partners coming back after a difficult stretch. One is relieved to be there. The other needs to say what cannot resume as before. Being back at the same gate has not brought them to the same point.
There is light on the court. They can welcome it and still take their time.